Straits of Hell

by Taylor Anderson

  “I wish I could outfit I’joorka’s troops with better weapons, like the new breechloaders,” Tony said a bit wistfully. “Can all our new money help with that?” A couple hundred Japanese weapons had been captured, and some of Hidoiame’s big guns were salvageable as well, but they had very little ammunition for the small arms. Worse, it would be a long time, if ever, before more would be made. The Allies had never had enough of the Japanese Arisaka rifles to justify tooling up to feed them. After the Battle of Baalkpan, most of the Arisakas aboard Amagi had been taken by her evacuating crew, who had probably feared the Grik at that point, and those that remained on the gutted battle cruiser were too few and too badly corroded by fire and seawater by the time they were found to be of any use. Ammo could be made for Scott’s rifles, but production of the standard calibers already in use was at capacity. For the present, the only ammunition for the Arisakas was what they’d taken from the Japanese, and those weapons had been issued to Scott’s home guard.

  “Money can’t buy Allin-Silvas or Blitzerbugs; there just aren’t enough,” Stuart said. “All our production is going to the fronts, and we still haven’t got a meaningful number of breechloaders in the hands of our troops in the East. That’s the current push, though, now that Maa-ni-la and New Scotland are finally tooled up to make them, but that leaves almost nothing but the old muzzle-loading smoothbores for any new unit working up here. Please believe it has nothing to do with the quality of your troops or any notion whatsoever that they won’t use the new weapons effectively. As I said, most Allied troops in the West are still using the same arms you’ve received.”

  “You’ll get the new guns,” Abel predicted. “Everybody will, eventually.” He grinned. “And hopefully you’ll even get them before you need them!”

  “I had’ta ask, y’know?” Scott muttered, frowning. I’joorka just tilted his head in a Khonashi shrug.

  They sat silently for a while, enjoying the shade and watching arcs of molten steel spew from the wrecked destroyer as Khonashis, human and reptilian, and a large number of ’Cats from Baalkpan torched the ship apart.

  “Talk to ’ister Letts,” I’joorka finally urged. “Let us kill Dons. You, the Alliance, hel’ us kill Jaaphs. Let us really hel’ the Alliance!”

  CHAPTER 5

  ////// The “Cowflop”

  “Liberty City! That’s a laugh!” Chief Gunner’s Mate Dennis Silva hooted, staring down with his good eye on the harbor below. Smoke still rose from several places, a result of the little air raid the previous night. One enemy airship had fallen right between the Celestial Palace and the docks, and had burned satisfactorily for most of the night. He remembered fighting his way right through that spot not long ago, but the warren of filthy adobe structures was already largely gone. The zep had taken care of the rest. He had a fine, reclining perch on the northern flank entrance to the palace, and awnings had been rigged above all four entrances to the enormous structure, making shade for the ambulatory wounded who chose to spend their days where they could view preparations for the inevitable Grik counterattack. Many preferred not to look, with the scars of battle so fresh on their bodies and souls, and what remained of the city wasn’t very inspiring anyway.

  The palace was like an ant mound, or better, as Silva had said before, a giant stone cowflop on the denuded ground around a red ant bed. Except ants are tidy critters compared to Griks, he added to himself. He shrugged his mighty shoulders with less pain than he’d felt even the day before. And with all the vents they’ve opened in this dump, it’s cool enough to be sorta comfortable, even inside, he mused. The whole level of the palace, about a hundred and fifty feet above the stinking ground below, had been scoured as clean as possible for a hospital to the seventeen hundred or so humans and Lemurians who’d take longer to heal from the battle to seize the city—or would never recover at all. No reason for ’em to gawk around out here, he reasoned. Let ’em dream they’re wallowin’ in a bed o’ daisies. That dern seep an’ polta paste they been smearin’ on me, an’ pourin’ down my gullet’s had me seein’ weirder things.

  “Polta paste” was an analgesic, antibacterial salve made from the ubiquitous polta fruit, a fruit that could also be eaten, drunk straight, or fermented into a beverage called “seep.” Along with a number of other Lemurian foods, polta fruit obviously provided many of the nutrients humans and Lemurians required, but the medicinal (and recreational) side effects could be disconcerting to some. Like most human destroyermen, Silva had grown to prefer the excellent Lemurian beer for his “drinkin’.”

  He glanced back at the dim entrance to the palace. Personally, I’d sooner be out here. I got all cut up scamperin’ around on the inside o’ this stupid joint. I seen enough of it.

  “Li’erty City is not a good thing to call it?” Lawrence asked. The orange and brown tiger-striped Grik-like Sa’aaran understood English and Lemurian perfectly, and spoke it just as well—as long as he could avoid words that needed lips. He was also one of Silva’s best friends, after an interesting start, and now stuck to him like a loyal dog. A lot of that at present was self-preservation. He was utterly loyal, but in the land of the Grik he was also the only furry, toothy, semireptilian creature that wasn’t Grik. He was a genuine hero, having helped kill the Celestial Mother. But in addition to the thousands of Grik bottled up northwest of the city, rumors had a few still running loose. Lawrence wasn’t taking any chances that bad lighting would hide his distinctly different color, or that some of the “Impies”—from Chack’s Brigade in particular, who’d never seen him before—would take him for a Grik. He’d be better to stick by Silva.

  “No. ‘Liberty City’s’ a stupid name. I know why Adar wants to change it—makes it less Grik soundin’ than . . . Grik City, well, obviously. But the sad, sorry truth of it is, to ever’body who fought for this place, it’ll always be ‘Grik City.’ Hell, ‘Grik City’ has already been stitched on Walker’s battle flag!”

  “Can’t polish a turd,” agreed the dark-bearded man reclining next to Dennis. Silva looked at him. Gunnery Sergeant Arnold Horn had been chewed up in the fighting even worse than he. Both dismissed their wounds as “bites and scratches,” and that was technically true. Most had been inflicted by claws and teeth. But Grik were equipped from birth with claws and teeth sufficient to eviscerate prey (and opponents), and both men had been extremely lucky to survive. On top of that, their very worst “scratches” came from Grik swords and spears—and Arnie Horn had taken a particularly nasty jab.

  “I thought you were sleepin’,” Dennis accused, “leavin’ me here with nobody to talk to but a buncha’ halfwit ’Cats”—he glared at several Lemurians nearby who blinked back good-naturedly—“an’ this puffed-up gecko who thinks he did somethin’ special by helpin’ kill that bloated lizard lady on the top floor!”

  Lawrence huffed, and the ’Cats made their funny, snorting snickers.

  “You’re just angry you didn’t get to kill her,” Lawrence defended sourly, but he knew one of the reasons Silva kept griping about Lawrence’s deed was to remind people of it. Silva was funny like that.

  “Sure I am,” Dennis confessed. “Even madder it was that creepy twerp Isak who was with you. Gonna be hell in the firerooms.”

  “If he ever goes back,” Horn said.

  “Why? What’s he up to? Hey! He’s supposed to be here someplace, and I ain’t seen him!”

  “Tabby came around looking for him this morning, before you got back.” Horn nodded at the wreckage of the zeppelin. “She can’t find him and says he’s AWOL.”

  “He’s likely hiding so not to see Dennis,” Lawrence stated.

  “Naw, he ain’t scared o’ me no more. Shouldn’t be scared o’ nothin’, now. I bet he’s slinkin’ around down in the basement of this joint lookin’ for that giant poodledragon critter that got away. Gonna feed it another grenade! That was a hoot to see!”

  Lawrence shook his head. “Scuttle’ut
says it got out through a tunnel—there’s a tunnel they say so’ high-rank Griks get out.”

  “Is that so? Well, the big fat lizard lady didn’t get out,” Silva said with satisfaction. “But if that’s the case, an’ he ain’t back in his firerooms or huntin’ poodledragons with hand grenades, he’s bound to be up to somethin’ weird,” Silva declared airily. He pointed out at Walker. “Whatever it is, the bosun’ll . . .” Silva stopped, and clamped his mouth shut. Chief Bosun Fitzhugh Gray had been the closest thing he ever had to an honest-to-God, kick-hell-out-of-him-for-doing-wrong father figure in his life. He’d died defending the ship and his skipper, just like he always did, while Silva went haring off on a lark—like he always did. It didn’t really matter just then why Dennis wasn’t on Walker when his mentor needed him most, or that he’d been going for the throat of all the Grik. It only mattered that he wasn’t where he felt he should’ve been, and that . . . ached. And then not to even finish what he started, and lose so many others—like Irvin Laumer—on the way . . .

  For the first time in his life, Dennis Silva had been stopped cold. Thwarted. Shut out. Sure, he’d helped accomplish the mission; he and Arnie—and Lawrence too—probably made it possible. But he hadn’t made it to the end—and then really almost didn’t make it. That was an eye-opener. If a man as indestructible as the bosun could die . . . He shook his head, unwilling to finish the thought, and grunted. That’s the way he would’a wanted it, though, he realized. On his ship, by Cap’n Reddy’s side. But he went down in the same big fight that took this shitty place called Grik City. The hell with Adar’s stupid name. “The bosun would’a scared it outa him,” he finally said.

  “There you are!” came a scolding Brooklyn accent from behind. Silva’s scowl instantly changed to a beatific smile as he turned to face petite, dark-haired Nurse Lieutenant Pam Cross. They’d . . . endured an on-again, off-again, maybe back-on-again (Dennis was never entirely sure) relationship for quite some time, in which she engaged in complex rituals of deep understanding, wild confusion, adoration, and volcanic fury. All the while, Silva remained Silva—likely the cause of much of her erratic behavior—and imagined he was as close to “in love” with her as his imperfect understanding of the concept would allow.

  “Right where I always am, my little honeydew!” he crooned. She rolled her eyes and snorted.

  “You weren’t here last night,” she accused.

  He waved vaguely down at the wreckage below. “Was too,” he defended. “Most’a the night. Then I hobbled down yonder, careful as a crippled fawn,” he added piously, “’cause I seen some fellas pokin’ around that busted zep. Had to have a look at some little swivel guns they found. Kinda weird.”

  “You ain’t supposed to go runnin’ around!” Pam brayed. “You spring another leak, an’ I’ll just stand by and let you drain out! See if I don’t!”

  “Clearly, Chief Silva is ready for more than merely sitting about,” came another voice, and Dennis craned around again, wincing a little this time. The Lemurians stirred, trying to rise.

  “Why, Chackie!” he said, then frowned. “You ain’t gonna make me call you ‘Colonel,’ are ya?”

  Chack snorted a chuckle, waving at the ’Cats to remain comfortable, and moved around to squat beside his friend. “I’m still just a second-class bosun’s mate on Walker, our Home. You outrank me there. Just call me ‘Colonel’ when it seems appropriate to do so”—he blinked amusement—“if you ever recognize such an occasion.”

  Dennis grinned. “So whatcha got?” He nodded toward Pam. “You gonna spring me from the torments of Torky-mada . . . ett, here?”

  “Torky who?” Horn asked.

  “Never mind.” Silva looked expectantly at Chack.

  “Are you up to accompanying me on a trip?”

  “Back to the ship?”

  “No, to meet some . . . other people. Cap-i-taan Reddy said I can have you if you’re fit.”

  Silva leaned back on his cushion, resting his wrist on his brow. “Oh, I don’t know. Done a lotta meetin’ folks, an’ I am feelin’ kinda poorly. An’ it seems all I do is go trambleatin’ to an’ fro of late.”

  “He’s not going anywhere!” Pam decreed. “He’s wounded—again! He needs to heal properly this time!”

  Pam’s outburst stirred Silva forward, and he eyed Chack more seriously. “Scuttlebutt’s got you goin’ south, lookin’ for the great-grand’Cats of all the ’Cats. You really are?” He frowned, remembering when he’d briefly gone ashore with Chack and his brigade. “I recall there’s some mighty interestin’ boogers roamin’ around down there. Might gimme a chance to do a little huntin’. . . .”

  “Some very interesting creatures,” Chack assured.

  Silva’s lips split into a particular gap-toothed grin that even Lemurians had learned to approach with caution. “Well, hell. Sounds like a hoot. Can’t be as rough as our little hike to North Borno to meet Tony. . . .” He caught himself. “I mean, I’joorka’s Malay an’ lizard folks.” He gestured at Horn. “He let a whole damn ship fall on him!”

  “It was just half a ship,” Horn denied. “What about me?”

  Chack blinked regret. “I’m informed that your injuries will require a bit more time to heal,” he said, “and you are scheduled to sail for Baalkpan aboard Amerika with the other wounded.”

  Horn looked down.

  “Hey, tough luck,” Silva said, uncharacteristically soft.

  “That’s okay. I need a rest from you anyway, you big jerk.”

  “You’re a pal.” Silva shrugged. “I hear that little Jap, Toryu Miyata, will be on Amerika too. And maybe Herring. So at least you’ll have fellas to reminisce and jabber with.”

  “And I?” Lawrence demanded.

  “Hey, his flipper’s a lot better,” Silva said. “Flap yer arm, Larry! Show him.”

  Chack was thoughtful. “I do not know. The People in the south would only see Laaw-rence as a Grik, I fear, but . . .” He looked searchingly at the Sa’aaran. “You have often proven remarkably useful. I am in command of the expedition and I know your value in . . . unusual circumstances, but that decision might best be left to Mr. Braad-furd. He is responsible for the diplomatic aspects of the mission.”

  “So you’re goin’?” Pam demanded.

  “You betcha!” Silva laughed.

  “We’ll see about that!” Pam stated harshly, and stormed back through the entrance. Silva watched her go.

  “Say, she can’t queer the deal, can she?”

  “Lady Sandra has cleared you,” Chack replied, contemplating that conversation. It had been much like a similar one he’d once had with General Shinya in which Shinya described Silva as an amazingly useful but dangerous man. Chack had to agree with that—and Sandra’s assessment that it was always best to keep Dennis busy—and focused on being usefully dangerous in the right direction. Unconsciously, he blinked vague speculation, glancing after Pam. He knew she and Silva were sweet on each other, and he no longer—really—thought there’d ever been anything physical between the big destroyerman and Risa, his sister. But Risa would be remaining behind, and he was just as glad to keep them apart. As for Pam . . . “But Lady Sandra, even Cap-i-taan Reddy, will not order you to go. Paam has a point. While your wounds were not as deep or dangerous as Gunny Horn’s, or as crippling as Lieuten-aant Mi-yaa-ta’s, they were many. If you would rather . . .”

  “No, no! I’ll go. It’s been too long since we went adventurin’ together, just you an’ me!”

  Chack stood. “Very well. Much remains to prepare, and there are always delays.” Chack waved out at the devastation. “But we must leave as soon as possible.” He grinned. “I shall leave you to sort out your own, uh, preparations.” With that, he turned and left, following Pam into the palace.

  “Pam’s gonna hate your guts—again,” Horn warned.

  “Maybe. But she’ll be outa here, back on Walker
when they go chasin’ Grik in the strait, anyway.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather be on Walker?”

  Dennis considered, and his thoughts veered suddenly back to the bosun. “Not just yet,” he answered quietly.

  Suddenly, a small, colorful reptile with furry membranes stretched between its limbs scrambled up and leaped on Silva’s chest with a “Grawwk!” of greeting. Not capable of actual flight, the creature was more of a tree-glider from Yap Island, where Silva, Lawrence, Sandra, and a number of others had been marooned for a while. Originally the pet of then Princess, now Governor-Empress Rebecca Anne McDonald of the Empire of the New Britain Isles, he’d been sent away purportedly due to his somewhat inappropriate behavior.

  “Goddammit, Petey!” Silva snarled. “Get off! Go back to the Skipper’s lady where you belong!” Petey promptly arched his back and heaved like a cat with a hairball, and before Silva could fling him away, he regurgitated a bolus of . . . something, on Silva’s clean shirt. “Eat!” he cawed triumphantly, beaming up at Dennis with large, adoring eyes. “Eat, goddammit!”

  “You might lose Pam for good this time,” Horn deadpanned, “but at least somebody still loves ya.”

  CHAPTER 6

  ////// Second Fleet

  Off the coast of New Granada (Ecuador)

  USS Maaka-Kakja (CV-4)

  “With all respect, Your Highness, I do not care if you are my Governor-Empress,” High Admiral Harvey Jenks declared, his carefully controlled patience beginning to crack. “We simply cannot risk the reinforcements you’ve brought by putting them ashore just yet, and I certainly cannot—will not—risk you!” Despite her small stature and normally almost-elfin face, a lesser man would’ve dissolved under the withering glare the young empress bestowed on Jenks. Admiral Lelaa-Tal-Cleraan, commander of Maaka-Kakja, still the sole aircraft carrier/tender with Second Fleet, was a personal friend of Rebecca Anne McDonald, and even she almost took a step back. Jenks held his ground, but began absently twisting his long, braided mustaches with his fingers. The others gathered on the great ship’s broad bridgewing reacted in various ways. High Chief Saan-Kakja, Rebecca’s Lemurian “sister” ruler of all the Filpin Lands, stood beside her, but blinked her mesmerizing black and golden eyes with a thoughtfulness that Rebecca’s temper had abandoned. Sister Audry, the young, straw-haired Benedictine nun, appeared slightly embarrassed, as did “Tex” Sheider, Lelaa’s Exec. Sergeant “Lord” Koratin, Audry’s scarred, wizened, Lemurian Marine bodyguard and advisor from Aryaal, stood at parade rest. His face didn’t show it, of course, but he had an air of boredom about him. Sister Audry’s enlightened and converted regiment of former Dom prisoners of war, her “Regimento de Redentores,” had a new colonel. Former Teniente of Dominion “Salvadores,” Colonel Arano Garcia had an anxious expression on his dark, handsome face. Surgeon Commander Selaas-Fris-Ar, Keje’s daughter and chief medical officer for all of Second Fleet, blinked consternation. Matt’s cousin, Orrin Reddy, Maaka-Kakja’s Commander of Flight Operations (COFO), looked on with guarded amusement. A pair of Nancy floatplanes, their blue paint now salt streaked and weathered, roared off the flight deck and into the sky, bound for Guayakwil Bay to support General Shinya’s expeditionary force in the East.